


Vinny starts sometimes

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Vinny gets a life [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:36:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3845998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bad d-man,” Thomas says. </p><p>“Someone’s sleeping on the couch tonight,” Carmen says.</p><p>“You’re all sleeping on the couch tonight if I don’t get goal support,” Thomas calls at his team’s retreating backs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vinny starts sometimes

**(3rd start)**

Anton’s not really a touchy guy. He’s not the worst on the team (that’s definitely Lapointe), but he doesn’t participate as much in the casual shoves, pushes, pinches and hugs that Thomas associates his room with. Thomas is and isn’t, depending on his mood, so they’ve sorted out a signal.

Fournier gets the flu, and is absolutely miserable with it. They’re on the road, and there isn’t enough time to grab anyone from Hamilton, so Fournier sits on the bench, looking queasy, everyone giving him as wide a berth as possible.

It’s a 6-1 shell out, and it’s not like they were going to stick Fourns in when he was as liable to lie down on the ice as clean up Thomas’ mess. He’s gotten a few elbow bumps and head pats, reassurances and forgiveness, but he still feels like shit. Fournier had wrapped an arm around him once he’d shucked his jersey off, but fairly or not, Thomas figures Fournier’s thinking about how he could have done better, even vomiting, so it isn’t the best hug to get. Also he really doesn’t want to get the flu. 

Thomas doesn’t even get to go crawl home and hide like he wants to, has to duck awkward smiles in his direction until he gets back into the room and just has to deal with Anton. Thomas was offered his own room right away, like his goalie buzz would get hurt or something if he had a roommate, but Anton’s low maintenance, so it’s basically like living alone except someone will watch Simpsons reruns with you. He doesn’t make it awkward, just changes to sweats and flips the TV onto the news while Thomas mopes.

“Tony, moral support,” Thomas mumbles after the local news starts showing highlights of the game. Anton comes over and sits on Thomas’s bed, knocks a knee against his. 

“C’mere Vinny,” Anton says, and Thomas leans into the arm curling around his shoulders. “I fucked up, that first goal was me.”

“You don’t get to blame yourself for deflections,” Thomas mutters, rolling his eyes.

“Then you don’t either, at least three of those goals were deflected in,” Anton retorts.

Sneaky bastard. “You suck,” Thomas says, glaring at the fabric of Anton’s shirt.

“Hey, who let in six goals tonight?” Anton asks, and squeaks out a laugh when Thomas bites his shoulder. 

“Fournier didn’t save _anything_ ,” Anton adds, and Thomas rests his forehead against fabric. 

“We’re lucky Fourns didn’t throw up on the bench,” Thomas says.

“Hey, you weren’t _that_ bad,” Anton says.

“You’re shit at moral support,” Thomas says, but he’s feeling a little better.

**(7th start)**

Thomas likes Anton’s parents a lot. Tonya is big and brassy and has the kind of Brooklyn accent Thomas kind of thought was a stereotype until he met her. She gives great hugs, and leaves lipstick on Thomas’s cheeks that Anton usually viciously wipes off afterwards. Vladimir’s quieter, more like Anton, but he watches all their games, and often has really good advice for Thomas, will compliment him on the shit he did right, but call him on the shit he didn’t, and it’s like having an extra goalie coach. A legendary one.

A bonus is that Anton turns into a sullen teenager every time his parents are around, and it’s hilarious. He seems genuinely aggrieved that Thomas likes them, and that they seem to like him back.

After Thomas’ first shutout of the year, they go out, a lot of them. Anton comes along, but he gets a call, wanders out for ten minutes then comes in stone-faced. “My father wants to talk to you,” Anton says. “But I told him you were busy.”

“No, hey,” Thomas says, and shimmies out of the booth. “He still on? Gimme your phone.”

Anton hands it over, and Thomas goes outside and calls back. Vladimir offers him congratulations, then sketches over the game with him, and Thomas comes back in after a bit, grinning, hands Anton his phone back. Anton’s sulking, but he nudges over a beer he got while Thomas was outside.

“He’s not like, a goaltending genius or anything,” Anton mutters. “Goaltending isn’t even the same. He doesn’t know shit about hybrid.”

“Dude,” Thomas says, appalled, and Fournier echoes him. It’s not like Thomas grew up watching the Whalers or anything, but Vladimir was the consensus best goalie in the league for years. He’s got a ring. Two, actually, Stanley Cup and HHOF. Thomas is always going to listen to any advice he has.

“Whatever,” Anton says, sounding all of fifteen years old, and takes a sip of his beer. 

“You’re still my favourite Petrov,” Thomas says, elbows Anton’s side. Anton elbows him back. “Usually.”

Anton elbows him harder. 

“Behave, Antosha,” Thomas says, and Denisovich’s head snaps up, eyeing Anton kind of fearfully, like he’ll bite Thomas’ head off.

“Fuck off,” Anton mumbles, but he stops elbowing Thomas in the ribs, so. Success!

**(16th start)**

Thomas thinks getting landed on by two hundred pounds of hockey player plus pads probably hurts more when you don’t have equipment on, but it’s definitely enough to knock the wind out of him, blinking a little dazedly up at the net. By the time he sits up the trainer’s half over the boards, only stopping when Thomas shakes his head at him, and that’s more than enough time for Anton to have dropped the gloves, getting two shots in before Carruthers shakes his off, and then pretty much getting his ass handed to him, because fuck, he dropped them with Carruthers?

When it gets tallied, they’re short handed, Anton with two extra for roughing, Carruthers somehow getting away with goaltender interference, and the Montreal faithful that tally more than half the fans at the Canadian Tire Centre boo for a solid minute and a half. They only stop because Olsen scores, and it’d probably just seem like they were booing Thomas, which like, he’d kind of understand, because it was one he’d really like to get back. 

He’s not in a great mood when they shuffle out at the end of the second, the Habs down two, and Anton gets chewed out in front of the room, which he totally deserves, because he’s their penalty kill, that was undisciplined, and also he is terrible at fighting, Thomas hopes that black eye is going to hurt.

Thomas stays in his corner, acknowledging Fournier’s elbow bump only, right until the team’s shuffling right back out, and Anton lurks by the door, looking chastened but kind of hopeful, like a dog who knows he did wrong but would still like pets. It’s hard to stay mad at the kicked puppy expression, but Thomas is still a little pissed, so he reaches up to poke Anton on his dumb bruised face.

“Ow,” Anton says mildly.

“Bad d-man,” Thomas says. 

“Someone’s sleeping on the couch tonight,” Carmen says.

“You’re all sleeping on the couch tonight if I don’t get goal support,” Thomas calls at his team’s retreating backs. 

**(21st & 22nd starts)**

Lourdes has his big ass planted in Thomas’s crease and right in his face. There’s a slightly scrambly moment when Thomas sees the puck a split second after he’d like to, but he saves it and doesn’t give Lourdes the rebound. 

“I like Chapman better,” he tells Lourdes sunnily, and Lourdes is laughing as he skates back to his bench. 

“He’s going to take a run at you and no way am I getting in the way of that,” Anton tells him. 

“Nah,” Thomas says. “He likes Chapman better too.”

The next game he’s in net, he just happens to have Chapman’s ass planted in front of him. “I like Lourdes better,” he tells Chapman. 

Chapman sends him a look of such incandescent rage that Thomas regrets everything he’s ever done leading up to the moment. He doesn’t have Anton lurking in front of him, so when there’s a commercial break, he skates up to the bench for once, lurking in turn over Anton’s spot on the bench until he looks up.

“If Chapman takes a run at me will you get in the way?” Thomas asks hopefully.

Anton looks considering. “Did you say something stupid?” he asks.

“No stupider than usual,” Thomas says, which is a lie, maybe, but maybe not. He thinks Chapman’s just a little unhinged. 

Anton considers for another moment. “I guess so,” he says.

“Thanks buddy,” Thomas says, and skates back to his crease. 

**(27th start)**

Barring Fournier getting injured or doing what he’s always promised and abandoning all of them to hide in Northern Quebec in an igloo, because “at least it’d be quiet for fucking once”, this is going to be Thomas’ last game of the season, and that’s okay. They haven’t clinched the playoffs, but it’s basically mathematically impossible for them not to make it, and the only pressure is really whether they’ll end up facing the Whalers, or god forbid, the Nordiques.

They’re playing the Whalers, second of a home and home, and Fourns had sealed the deal (pun so intended, but no one had appreciated Thomas’ wit, which is hurtful) at home, so it’s up to Thomas to show his stuff in Hartford. Anton’s parents are in the crowd, and Thomas isn’t going to lie, it freaks him out that Vladimir Petrov is watching him play against his old team. Anton’s extra prickly tonight, so he thinks it might be freaking him out a little too. 

“No pressure,” Anton says before the game. “But don’t embarrass me in front of my father.”

Fournier looks appalled on Thomas’ behalf, and opens his mouth indignantly.

“No pressure,” Thomas says. “But don’t embarrass _me_ in front of your father.”

Anton looks like he wants to stick his tongue out, but decided he was too mature for it years ago. Thomas totally isn’t. He sticks his tongue out at Anton's grumpy face.

“I don’t understand either of you,” Grayson says. 

“Join the fucking club,” Fournier mutters. 

Thomas doesn’t embarrass himself, and neither does Anton, but they don’t manage to pull out a win. It’s one of those losses that is just bad luck, bad bounces, boards that clearly hate Thomas and decide to score on him all by themselves. He’s disgruntled about it, but it wasn’t his bad, wasn’t anyone’s bad, really, so he accepts the hug from Tonya and the handshake from Vladimir with good grace.

“You boys want to stay over tonight?” Tonya asks.

“We’re leaving tonight,” Anton says. It is a lying lie. Thomas avoids looking anyone in the eye.

“Okay,” she says, smoothes a hand over Anton’s hair, which he doesn’t duck in time, presses a lipstick kiss against Thomas’ cheekbone, which he is almost positive Anton is going to scrub off once they get on the bus.

“You played well,” Vladimir says, low, “you had a good season,” and Thomas impulsively gives him a hug, which Vladimir returns, patting his back a couple times. 

Once they get on the bus, Anton does carefully inspect Thomas’ cheek and then rub off any pink that remains.

“Mom cooties,” Thomas says drowsily. “You’re weird about your parents.”

“You’re weird,” Anton retorts, which isn’t exactly his best. Thomas usually sits with Fournier, especially after losses, but Fournier waves him on and Thomas sits in the back with Anton.

“You’re a lying liar,” Thomas tells him, now that they’re out of earshot of Anton’s parents. “Who lies.”

“They like you better than me,” Anton grumbles, and under it Thomas hears a thread of hurt.

“Oh my god you dork,” Thomas says. “They’re only nice to me because of you.”

Anton snorts, but doesn’t say anything.

“You’re such a drama queen,” Thomas says, bumping his chin against Anton’s shoulder, and Anton doesn’t shrug him off, so Thomas keeps it there, even though the position’s kind of uncomfortable. 

“Are we cuddling now?” Carmen asks, craning around from the seat ahead. “Can I cuddle?”

“Forwards not allowed,” Anton says flatly, and Carmen pouts at them but turns back around.

“What'd my father say?” Anton asks, when Thomas has half drifted off. It’s a short ride to the hotel, but he’s basically narcoleptic on transportation.

“That I had a good season,” Thomas mumbles.

“He's right,” Anton says, quiet, scrubs a hand through Thomas' hair. “You did.”


End file.
